even if you say it's a useless fantasy just stay like this a little longer
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For the first time in a long time, there were no nightmares.
Sleep came to me as easily and lightly as a drifting cloud, cottony and frothy and all of the lightest things I had only ever imagined. When I woke up, the bed next to me was empty, the spot cold.
I got up, feeling like something had shifted inside of me. The walk down the stairs felt different, though I had done it a thousand times, and my chest felt like someone had hollowed it out. Vernon's shirt fit loosely around my body, loose enough to hide the shape of my body, and the largeness of it surprised me.
The first stab of pain hit me when I tiptoed into the kitchen. I winced, and Vernon looked up—he was making something, something that smelled more than delicious to my famished self. I pulled out a chair, sitting down next to the counter, avoiding looking at him as I did, with good reason. Though I had seen all of him by then, seeing him shirtless in such a sunny atmosphere was a different kind of intimacy.
"Are you okay?" he asked, frowning, concerned eyes following my movements when I slid into the chair. The wood brushed my bare thighs, edges digging sharply into my skin. "Did Minho get you anywhere else? Does the cut sting? Is there a bruise? Did I hurt you?"
I smiled, more amused than embarrassed. "I think you broke me."
Vernon blinked, uncomprehending at first, and then I saw realization rise like dawn in his eyes. He looked away, and I saw the beginning of color spread across the paleness of his cheeks like a growing flame. Blushing, he's blushing, I realized dully, breath catching in my chest at the sight. I had almost forgotten that he had the ability to blush, and the sight brought forth memories—the first time he had asked me out, three years ago, he had blushed.
"Who was it?" I started hoarsely, swallowing against the dryness in my throat. He looked so soft at that moment, so pretty and fragile, like a glass sculpture you would never want to disturb. "Your nightmares, who are they about?"
He glanced up, squinting when the sunlight got in his eyes. Golden brown, pools of honey, beautiful eyes, so beautiful. "My sister," he said lowly. He blinked, and I half expected his eyelashes to crumble to dust when they touched his cheek. "Look, I didn't mean what I said last night. I shouldn't have said anything to you, even about your father. It wasn't my place. I wouldn't have touched Taeyong."
"Yeah," I whispered, as if speaking to myself. I wasn't sure why I had asked him the question despite knowing the answer, but it felt necessary to hear him say that. "I know."
Strands of settled-honey hair fell onto his forehead as he tilted his head. The look in his eyes was one of incredulity, and though he looked calm, I could see the tension in his shoulders when he moved. "How?" he asked, a corner of his mouth quirking upwards. "How can you always tell?" There was a disbelieving laugh in his voice when he spoke, faded and forced. "When I'm lying?"
